


Table Service

by chubbychoco



Series: Sex With Steve Rogers [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Anal Fingering, Bottom Tony Stark, Fingerfucking, Food, Food Critic, Food Kink, Food Sex, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 07:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbychoco/pseuds/chubbychoco
Summary: Steve Rogers, owner of the biggest up-and-coming restaurant in Brooklyn.  Tony Stark, food critic with a chip on his shoulder.  Add one badly-timed angry erection and stir well for a surprisingly happy ending for all involved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I re-watched the 2012 Avengers, and does anyone else remember how badly they wanted Steve and Tony to have angry sex on the SHIELD helicarrier floor? Well, I was reminded, but I decided to put them in a kitchen instead because I've also been watching Chopped.

“In my kitchen, there's a very simple rule – make it nice, or make it twice. I don't tolerate subpar food going through those doors.” The brightest blue eyes, not pale, but saturated and sharp, looked into the camera with unerring control. “I want the words 'Chef Steven Rogers' to be synonymous with quality control and superior standards. Good Irish-American food is a dying art, and I'll be honest, sometimes I want falafel and couscous or baked ziti instead of shepherd's pie or beef and onion stew. But if you don't leave The Golden Glen completely satisfied, I don't consider it a failure on my chef's part. I consider it a failure on _my_ part, because that meal never should have made it past my tasting spoons.”  
  
The TV turned off with a quick hum, and New York's pickiest food critic stood up from the sofa, a smirk on his face.  
  
'Quality control and superior standards', huh?  
  
Well, he'd just see about that.  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve couldn't believe what he was reading. His sous chef glowered at the newspaper over his shoulder, making a low rumbling noise of disapproval every time he read something that was particularly infuriating. Steve couldn't blame him. Though Bucky had the monopoly on mean guttural noises in their kitchen, Steve was stunned beyond words at the slaughter on the paper.  
  
'The Golden Glen – 5/10 – For a head chef and owner that prides himself on being a cut above the rest, the Golden Glen experience was shockingly average. Though infinitely better than last week's hole-in-the-wall, I'd be remiss in my duties as a critic if I gave them anything better than a four in exchange for the lukewarm cottage pie and bizarre corned beef and cabbage 'spring rolls' that bumped uninterested elbows with my taste buds. A warm staff and clean building give them the extra star their food could not, so if you're comfortable dropping twenty dollars a head on the Irish Olive Garden, by all means, tell Chef Rogers that Tony Stark sent you. Maybe he'll try harder.'  
  
“I'll kill him in his sleep,” Bucky seethed.  
  
“What is _that_ shit!” Natasha, a fellow chef who had been reading along on her tablet, scoffed, her nose wrinkling. “'Irish Olive Garden'? If that son of a bitch ever shows his face here again, our sweetbread shipment is coming in early – no explanation needed, I take it?”  
  
“None. I'll hold him down for you; how are your knife skills coming along?”  
  
“You tell me. I julienned the carrots and asparagus this morning.” Bucky whistled approvingly. Those flawless vegetable matchsticks were enough to give any man reason to panic when she was holding a knife and talking about his testicles.  
  
Steve finally shook his head and pulled words up from the fast-sinking well of his stomach. “This changes nothing,” he said sternly. “We've got a dinner service coming up and if it's anything like last night's, we're gonna be busy as hell.”  
  
“But Tony - “ Natasha began.  
  
“Can suck me off for all I care,” Steve said, his unusual crassness betraying his threadbare temper. “He's one man. We've got a packed house of people who clearly disagree with him. Are we going to leave them wanting just because some newspaper asshole decided to come in here and pitch a hissy fit?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Bucky answered.  
  
“Good. Go rally the rest of the crew and tell them I want this place to smell like heaven in thirty minutes. I'll be in there to help out in five – no, ten.” Steve waited until Natasha and Bucky had confirmed his orders and left...  
  
...then peeled the review from the rest of the newspaper, stashing it in his desk drawer.  
  
Sometimes, rage and a determination to prove someone wrong was the best fuel a man could ask for.  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve wasn't obsessed.  
  
He _wasn't._  
  
Never mind that he looked the critic up, checking up on the success rate of the restaurants he reviewed. Or that he started picking up that paper regularly to see if any of the following restaurants he ate at got higher ratings...which they didn't. Or that he Googled pictures of him, definitely _not_ so he could confront him if he saw him in person thank-you-very-much.  
  
Bucky had shared an apartment with Steve for close to ten years, so he knew when Steve was running on bitterness. And he was definitely doing that right now, but strangely enough, it wasn't interfering with his cooking. Steve's palate was still as pinpoint as ever, and he tended his pastries and roasts with flawless precision. If Tony Stark's review of The Golden Glen had turned anyone sour on the food, complaints certainly never made it back to the kitchen.  
  
So _why,_ Steve wondered, did his royal highness have such a nut against the place?  
  
It was three months later when he had an opportunity to ask.  
  
Steve had come out of the kitchen at a patron's request, and though he didn't like to be presumptuous, he wasn't exactly surprised when the customer gushed endlessly about how the food couldn't have been better. Steve smiled, proud of himself but modest all the same, and politely excused himself back to the kitchen.  
  
And saw him as he turned.  
  
Food critic Tony-fucking-Stark.  
  
The son of a bitch had awfully distinctive facial hair. Frankly, Steve didn't know how the servers hadn't ratted him out already. Maybe he was paying them for their silence...  
  
...but why exactly was he paying for supposedly average food?  
  
Steve darted his eyes up to the clock. Near enough to closing time. The currently seated tables were the last tables of the night.  
  
Well then.  
  
Steve stormed into the kitchen like a blond hurricane, snatching a blank order ticket and pen from the pad by the door. He wrote in neat, small letters that did nothing to betray how livid he was in that moment, signing in the loopy scrawl Bucky had teased him about since they were children.  
  
'The head chef would be honored to offer you a private tasting after hours, and would be extremely grateful to strive for improvement via your honest feedback.' The 'S' and the 'R' were the only legible parts of his signature.  
  
“Scott!” he barked.  
  
The server all but sprinted to Steve's side, looking worried. “Yes, sir?”  
  
“Would you please deliver this to the man at table seventeen?”  
  
Scott seemed relieved upon realizing he wasn't in trouble. “Right away, sir.”  
  
“And stop calling me 'sir'. I'd rather be 'chef' than 'sir'.”  
  
The last few tables went by in a rush, and when Steve didn't get a ticket back for table seventeen, he figured Stark had either accepted the offer or left once he realized he'd been recognized. Either way, he banished the rest of his crew and whipped off his apron, thanking them all for an excellent service as always and bidding them a fond farewell until their next shift. He was always good to his staff. It wasn't so long ago that _he'd_ been the one up to his elbows in dishwater, and kind chefs had meant the world to him back then.  
  
Once the last of them had said goodbye and jokingly implored him not to kill Stark, though, Steve dropped the act and took a deep, steadying breath, brow bunched in the middle. The sound of footsteps outside the kitchen doors did nothing to help him unwind before he actually faced Tony in person.  
  
He'd thought almost nonstop about what he'd say if he ever saw the bastard.  
  
But as the doors swung open and Tony approached him, all swagger and smirk, all he could think about was how he wanted to punch that handsome smile off of that handsome face, and why the fuck hadn't he looked this handsome in the photos?  
  
“Ah, Chef Rogers. I got your note,” he said in a voice that indicated he was used to being in charge.  
  
“Yeah, I figured. So tell me, Mr. Stark, what brought you back?” Steve asked, his voice heavy with barbed sarcasm. “The lukewarm food, or the endless breadsticks?”  
  
“Endless br – oh. The Olive Garden comment.” He folded his arms and leaned against the nearest wall, looking at Steve with mild amusement. “I take it that one got under your skin?”  
  
“What – are – you – doing – here?” Steve asked, punching each word out like its own sentence.  
  
Tony looked a bit confused, then a bit uncomfortable. It was obvious that he wasn't used to dealing with the chefs and owners that he pissed off...and Steve was _both._ “What else? The food is good.”  
  
“Good?” Steve demanded. “ _Good?_ First off, 'good' is an insult. And second, you gave it four stars out of ten. You're lucky I invited you back here instead of spitting in your beer and telling you to get the hell out of my restaurant!”  
  
“You say I'm lucky, but I notice there's no plate waiting for me,” Tony hummed. “So what, did you invite me back here just to beat me up? Because you'd be the first who actually had the balls.”  
  
Steve actually balled a fist up, wanting very much to take Tony up on the offer. Instead, he spun around to his stove – the only one still purring with life – and fumbled around for a moment, clanging utensils probably a bit louder than necessary. Tony's cool indifference turned into curiosity before too long, and he leaned over to get a better look.  
  
Just in time for Steve to whip back around, spoon in hand. He held the contents up to Tony's lips and demanded in a rough voice, “Try this.”  
  
“I can feed myself - “  
  
“Act like a child and I'll treat you like a child. Now try it.”  
  
'Child', hmph. All he'd been doing was his job. Still, Tony shrugged and drew the spoon between his lips, mulling the mixture of white-gold and green around before giving an approving hum. “Colcannon. With pink peppercorn and goat cheese.”  
  
Steve managed to look slightly impressed as well as angry. “Most people don't pick up on the pink peppercorn.”  
  
Tony shrugged again. “Not sure what you want from me here. Like I said before, it's good.”  
  
There was that word again, 'good'. Steve gave a frustrated growl and turned back to the stove. More shuffling and noise, and Tony crept closer. Steve surprised him again, suddenly face-to-face with him once more, this time with a sumptuous-smelling piece of meat on a fork.  
  
“Eat.”  
  
“Okay, when you said 'private tasting', this wasn't what I had in mind.”  
  
“The private tasting was a lie.”  
  
Tony scoffed, leaning back a bit. “Figures. So what is this?”  
  
“It's you, eating the corned beef.”  
  
Tony gave Steve a long, impatient look...but ate anyway. It all but melted in his mouth, savory and full-flavored. He gave a noncommittal hum, nodding. The response wasn't good enough for Steve.  
  
“Goddammit!” he hissed. “Words, please!”  
  
“Solid flavor. Tastes like corned beef is supposed to,” Tony answered. “It's - “  
  
“I swear, if you say 'good' one more time - “  
  
“ - not bad.”  
  
That wasn't any better. Steve turned back to the stove again, moving with something close to frenzy. This time, though, Tony drew too close and Steve whipped around like an angry viper, pinning Tony against the counter opposite to his work station. Tony yelped as the cold of the metal bit clean through his shirt, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Steve's body against him.  
  
“Keep away from my stove,” Steve warned him.  
  
“Jeez, noted!! You know, I could press charges for thi - “ Tony fell quiet. His attempts to squirm free had bared – metaphorically speaking – one of the causes of Steve's aggravation.  
  
He was hard.  
  
Achingly so, judging by the lack of give there.  
  
Tony felt heat rise in his cheeks. He still wasn't sure what was going on here, but he was starting to get a better idea. And if he was being perfectly honest, he didn't mind it. “So, is that a banger in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”  
  
Steve pulled sharply back, and when Tony turned to look at him, his face was a charming shade of red. “That's not – I'm sorry I lost my cool, I just don't like people approaching me while I'm working.”  
  
“And the hard-on?”  
  
“ _Not relevant._ ”  
  
“Oh, I think it is, though.” Tony moved back into Steve's space, a grin pushing up the corners of his mouth. “This is a huge point of pride for you, isn't it? You can't fathom for the life of you how someone isn't just blown away by your cooking. And the longer I go without being impressed, the angrier you get. And the angrier you get...well.” He flicked a glance down at Steve's groin. “No need to be embarrassed. We've all gotten hard-angry at least once.”  
  
“I'm a good chef,” Steve snapped.  
  
“Yeah, you are. But how is a _good_ chef supposed to make _excellent_ food?”  
  
Steve balled up his fists again. “You don't know how hard I've worked for this place. You're the only person who's ever been ambivalent about their experience here. You never have anything nice to say about _anywhere,_ so why don't _you_ tell _me_ what you've got against chefs, huh? Some broken dream you're taking out on the people who stuck with it long enough to succeed?” Tony's mood shifted and his eyes darkened enough that Steve figured he wasn't too far off the mark. “So that's it, then. Some unresolved grudge against someone none of us had anything to do with.” Steve turned back to the stove. “ _That's_ why I invited you back here, by the way. To find out what the hell your problem was.”  
  
“You don't know a damn thing about me,” Tony said.  
  
“I know enough to know no one is ever going to get a _real_ review from you until you get over yourself,” Steve responded.  
  
Tony glared at him for a moment, then remembered Steve had been going for more food before he'd turned on him. “...what else were you going to feed me?”  
  
“Why do you care? A man of your tastes only wants _excellent_ food.”  
  
“Look, if you saved it for me...” Tony prompted.  
  
“I'll be just as happy eating it on my own. I like what I make. That's why I make it,” Steve said coolly. “So you can either admit that you're fronting, and that you're judging me poorly to make up for some personal slight that I had nothing to do with...or you can leave.”  
  
“How do I know I even like what you've made?” Tony challenged.  
  
“Because you have a sweet tooth,” Steve answered, looking over his shoulder. He was plased to see Tony look slightly scandalized. “Yeah, I've noticed. Of all the things you write in your reviews, you never say anything bad about desserts. But you always order them, don't you?”  
  
Tony looked evasively off to one side. “So you saved me some dessert.”  
  
“An off-menu specialty for my regulars,” Steve confirmed, nodding.  
  
“...I want to try it.”  
  
“Then you know what you have to do.”  
  
Tony's face tightened into a scowl. “You're holding my dessert hostage, and _I'm_ the child?”  
  
“This offer expires as soon as I finish making this creme anglaise, by the way.”  
  
Tony wasn't having it. He went quiet, trying his best to still his breathing...and he thought privately to himself that yes, trying to dart around a chef in his own kitchen to steal some sweets _was_ pretty damn childish. But he was as proud as Steve was, minus the erection, and he'd be damned if he broke over a mystery bowl.  
  
He should have known better.  
  
Someone like Steve was a master of his surroundings in the kitchen; he knew this place like he knew his childhood home and could detect trouble coming a mile away. This time when he pinned Tony to the counter, it was on his back, and Tony could feel Steve's cock pressing hard against his. He was equal parts ashamed and intrigued when his own responded in kind, firming up under the grind of Steve's hips as he tried to reposition himself a bit more modestly. So long as he wanted to keep Tony still, though, there was no pulling back.  
  
“Ooh, baby. Aren't you supposed to buy me dinner first? Or make me dinner, in your case...”  
  
“I did. And you insulted it,” Steve snarled, blown pupils giving him away.  
  
“Maybe I'll like dessert better,” Tony suggested.  
  
“Yeah, well, you're not getting it until - “  
  
“I wasn't talking about what's in the bowl.”  
  
Oh. Steve's eyes widened and his mouth fell briefly open. “I – you – that's not – you can't just – _this hard-on is not for you._ ”  
  
“You got someone at home waiting for it?” Tony asked.  
  
“...no,” Steve admitted.  
  
“Then what's the problem here?”  
  
Steve's brow pinched and he gave Tony a severe look. “I don't like you.”  
  
“Because I lied about your food?” Tony asked.  
  
“Ye – wait a minute.” Steve fixed Tony in a sharp look. “You just said you lied about my food. What does that mean?”  
  
Tony rolled his eyes and gave a deep sigh. Chefs. “You're right. I've got damage, and I'm taking it out on you. Well, chefs, really. The truth is that it's fucking delicious, okay? And I'm not just saying that for some choice cock, I mean it. I've been here twice a week since that review trying everything on the menu, and I haven't disliked anything...but I like your hand pies best. Lambs would be lining up to die young if they knew they were going to go into those things.”  
  
Steve's expression was wide-eyed and unreadable, and Tony took it as a sign that he should continue.  
  
“Maybe one in a hundred people have a palate sensitive enough to pick up on the fact that you use Gruyere instead of white cheddar in your potatoes, but you do it anyway because to you, it matters. Do you know how many chefs just _settle_ because it's less expensive? With standards like yours, you could open in Paris within the - “  
  
“These. Off. Now,” Steve gritted, yanking at the tongue of Tony's belt.  
  
“ - oh, oh holy shit, okay. Yeah, that's – yeah.”  
  
Tony's clothes came off quickly, and as much as he liked the idea of Steve keeping the apron on, Steve rolled his eyes at the suggestion and told him to grab the jar of creamy white coconut oil. Tony shot him a doubtful look, but Steve assured him that it was a safe and even suggested alternative to commercial lubricants. And he only bought the best.  
  
When Tony turned back to Steve, jar in hand, he swallowed hard to see him naked from the waist down and unbuttoning the black vest he wore beneath his chef's coat. Beneath it was a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. It made his arms look _huge,_ although in all fairness, he really was ripped. Tony waited until Steve was unbuttoning his shirt before he rasped, “Keep it on.”  
  
Steve frowned for a moment before deciding it was better than the apron. “Fine.” He went to slick up his cock, but his frown deepened. “Do you have a condom?”  
  
“Oh yeah, I always bring condoms to restaurants,” Tony quipped.  
  
“Smartass,” Steve huffed. “Alright, so much for fucking you through the countertop.” Tony would never admit to the undignified, needy whimper that escaped him at that. “Plan B, then.”  
  
“What's Plan B?” Tony asked.  
  
Steve didn't respond right away. Instead, he ducked around to wash his hands, toweling them off on a pristine white terrycloth and turning back to Tony with the mysery dessert in hand. Tony craned his neck to watch as Steve set it down...and contained within was one of Tony's favorites. Bread pudding, covered with the fresh, though briefly forgotten, creme anglaise. His mouth watered even as his brain wondered what this could possibly have to do with the sex he was about to have.  
  
He found out quickly enough. Steve lifted one piece, small, sweet, and white, to Tony's lips. He ran it gently over them, nothing like his earlier commands for Tony to try his food, and Tony's tongue chased the sweet cream left in its wake. “Oh god,” he murmured. “This is weird. I don't usually mix business with pleasure.”  
  
“You don't think you crossed that line when you decided to get naked with me?” Steve asked, amusement in his voice. “C'mon. Give it a try, tell me what you think.”  
  
Tony drew it obediently between his lips, finding it perfectly bite-sized. He let his eyes flutter closed and he hummed contentedly, almost jolting up when that soft hum was joined with Steve gently stroking his half-hard cock.  
  
“Steve, oh my _god,_ it's so good. It's not oversaturated,” he almost purred, still finding it strange to review food as part of foreplay. “It's sweet and creamy, but the soda bread brings it back down, balances it. I like how you don't use black raisins, you've got the sultanas inst _oh my god._ ” Steve had slipped an oiled finger inside of him, and he wriggled it gently. “Was that a _reward_ for a good review?”  
  
“Maybe.” Steve's other hand, the one that had fed him the first time, dipped back into the bowl as the other braced on Tony's ass. As soon as Tony relaxed, he pumped his finger slowly in and out, teasing him. Tony moaned softly and shivered. “Want some more?”  
  
“Fingers?”  
  
“Pudding,” Steve answered.  
  
“Oh – do I, uh, have to keep talking about it?”  
  
“You don't have to,” Steve answered, sliding another piece between Tony's lips. He picked up the pace with his finger, purposefully avoiding his prostate. “But it'll do wonders for my ego if you do.”  
  
Tony couldn't manage it for long, finding it just a bit too strange for his tastes. But he put away the entirety of his dessert, drawing Steve's fingers into his mouth and sucking suggestively on them once he was done. They tasted sweet, and Tony flicked his tongue in a blatant show of what he could do if Steve would just let him dip his head between his legs. Steve was half-tempted, too, but for now at least, it was best to keep things simple – besides, he couldn't prove to Tony that he was clean, and that was a standard he held in both the kitchen _and_ the bedroom. The finger inside of Tony had been joined by a second now, and he moved them with more vigor now. Tony was making soft, deep noises, pushing down onto his hand in time to the motions.  
  
“You look so good right now,” Steve breathed, watching as Tony sucked on his fingers and wriggled down until Steve was buried to his knuckles. “Oh _hell,_ you don't even know. Need that hand back, I need to - “  
  
Tony opened his mouth and watched hungrily as Steve seized his own cock, rolling along the blood-flushed fullness of it in time to the fingers in Tony's ass. Still slick with oil, it was easy enough to add a third as Tony relaxed and loosened around him...and then _finally,_ Steve curled his fingers up against Tony's sweet spot and wriggled them gently, his hand pumping gently but firmly.  
  
Tony made a strangled noise of pleasure, legs falling boneless into the crooks of Steve's elbows. “Oh _fuck, fuck,_ Steve – Steve, p-please, just keep – right there - “ Tony could feel his cock jolt every time Steve pressed up, leaking heavily and smearing cooling streaks over his belly as Tony bounced his hips. His eyes kept fluttering closed, but every time he opened them, he couldn't decide which he liked watching better: Steve's strong, handsome face contorted in pleasure, pearl-white teeth sunk into his lower lip to stifle his moans, or his hand moving shakily over that mouth-watering erection of his, fingers teasing at the head and coaxing out preejaculate.  
  
Heat built fast, and it wasn't nearly long enough for Tony's liking before he was coming, white streaking his belly with every press of Steve's fingers. Even after he was done, Steve rubbed – far more gently now – and Tony realized after a moment that Steve was watching the thinning stream of semen pool down in milky lines, and those nudges on his prostate kept them going.  
  
Getting off to it. Tony would have smirked if he wasn't so blissed out. Well, if Steve liked a show...Tony dragged his fingers lazily up from his cock to his collarbones, dragging lines through the mess on his body and shivering at the self-stimulation.  
  
It worked. Steve growled, withdrawing his hand and bracing it on the counter to steady his motions as he worked himself desperately, breath coming in shattered gasps. “Oh god, Tony, coming, coming - !!“ Like he needed to announce it. Steve came like he'd never been touched before, hard and heavy, his come mingling with Tony's on his chest. Tony would have been irritated if it wasn't so fucking hot.  
  
Steve rubbed the head of his cock against the hollow between Tony's cock and the dip of his balls, looking a bit overstimulated himself before he finally let his other hand join its partner on the counter, steadying himself until he could catch his breath.  
  
Tony swallowed hard, taking a moment for himself as well. This...had not gone at all like he'd expected it to. Not that he was complaining, but he didn't usually react well to surprises. Well, next time he came here, he could bring a condom. Then it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?  
  
“Tony,” Steve panted softly.  
  
“Hm? Yeah?” Tony asked.  
  
“That was...not what I was picturing.”  
  
Tony couldn't help but laugh. It was breathless and tired, but as bright as anything and Steve found he quite liked it. “ _You_ weren't picturing it? I didn't exactly - “  
  
“No. You have hit your smarmy joke quota for the night if you want to stay in my good graces,” Steve warned him.  
  
Tony grinned. “Oh, is that where I am now?”  
  
“If you lack useful things to do with yourself, might I suggest you help me clean the counter? This was _not_ sanitary.”  
  


* * *

  
  
'Before I begin this week's review, here are this week's corrections in ascending numerical order: The Fullmoon Cafe, 6/10. Sammy's, 8/10. The Golden Glen, 8.5/10. As always, you can find an extended review on The Gourmet Guillotine, and a special thank you to the readers for sticking with me as I right my wrongs.'  
  
Natasha held her tablet aloft triumphantly. “That's more like it!” she crowed. “Steve, have you read his updated review?”  
  
“No,” Steve chuckled, finger-pecking at the calculator on his desk. One of the downsides of being the owner was the math. It wasn't that he was bad at it. It was just boring. “I've been making sure our heads stay above water.”  
  
“Well, take a minute to read this. You're gonna love it.”  
  
Steve rolled his eyes with an indulgent smile and took the tablet, scrolling to the elegant header for the Golden Glen. He recognized Tony's writing style instantly, and was silently delighted to know he hadn't hired a ghost-writer. It was a daunting task, fixing a year of undeserved reviews...but Tony was determined to handle it in person. Steve liked that.  
  
'If I am being honest, I should be drawn and quartered for comparing The Golden Glen to any chain restaurant, but especially Olive Garden. It stands apart in its field for many reasons: fresh ingredients, unique flavor profiles, and a chef who lives up to his promises. Now that I have my head out of my backside, I strongly recommend the lamb hand pies, the colcannon, and – for those of you who can build up enough of a rapport to earn it – the sultana soda bread pudding. Especially the bread pudding.'  
  
Steve's cheeks heated at the last line.  
  
'It comes with a finger-licking creme anglaise.'

 


End file.
